


(mis)appropriate

by harcourt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bruce projects his sadness, D/s-verse, Dub-con themes, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, M/M, but all the sex is consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=27537408#t27537408">this</a> prompt where post-Loki, Clint is required to have a dom or lose active field status.</i>
</p><p>Bruce does it to help Clint out. Clint isn't <i>really</i> his. </p><p>Until he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(mis)appropriate

It actually borders on cruel, Bruce thinks, to force Clint to have a dom after the Loki thing--after he's had his mind invaded and his will taken from him--because control is obviously precious to him now, if it wasn't before. Clint looks like a man who'd prefer to not give up any piece of himself for a long, long time, if ever. 

He's hard-eyed and solemn when he slides into Bruce's lab, collar in hand, to ask the favor. And that's fucked up. Subs _offer_. They get to offer. _Doms_ are the ones who have to ask--Is it okay? Do you mind if I? Would you wear my collar?

It makes Bruce's chest knot up inside to listen to Clint's _if you wouldn't mind_ and _I'm sorry for asking, but I have to so I can stay in the field._ And, _But not if you have someone else, obviously._

Bruce takes the collar from him--and that's another thing Clint shouldn't have had to acquire for himself--and gestures for him to sit on one of the lab stools, then says, "Clint. Would you wear a collar for me?" He doesn't presume to say _my_. 

Clint blinks, then nods and drops his head so Bruce can slide the collar around his neck and buckle it. Says, "Thanks, doc."

Bruce sighs. "Let me thank _you_ , Clint. Okay?" Clint frowns.

"But you're doing me a favor," he says, like he thinks Bruce is a bit slow. 

It doesn't matter. If Clint is putting himself in his hands, then it's Bruce's place to thank _him_. He checks the fit of the collar and takes Clint's head in both his hands, tilting his head back up. "Thank you, Clint," he says, gently, and the dark look goes out of Clint's eyes, a little.

"Anytime, Bruce," he says, and grins.

\-----

Tony wolf-whistles the first time he sees Clint in the collar. It's probably some kind of harassment, but harassment is Tony's middle name, and Clint doesn't seem bothered, smirking back and swinging the leg he has hanging over the arm of the chair he's lounging in. "Be jealous, Stark," he calls and gives Tony a smug wink. 

Bruce leaves it alone.

Until Tony calls back, "Hah. Of _that_ collar? What did your dom do? Cut down a belt?"

Bruce has lived so long in such poverty-striken communities that anything sevicable looks like a reasonable collar to him, if he doesn't think about it. But now that Tony's pointed it out, it _does_ look like Clint's just fashioned the thing out of whatever was at hand, to meet whatever requirements he'd been given.

It wouldn't bother him, Bruce thinks, if a dom had purposely given him that collar. It would show character--simple, rugged functionality suits Clint, might suit a man he'd choose on his own, when not under pressure to fulfill an ultimatum--but knowing he'd thrown it together himself makes his back-and-forth with Tony seem desolate, somehow.

And maybe it's just Bruce projecting his years of loneliness, but he's not going to let Clint think he's not worth the bother of taking care of. That he has to do it himself.

\-----

"Here," Bruce says, undoing the makeshift buckle-and-strap and replacing it with the new collar. It looks good. Clint looks confused.

"If they're making you be someone's sub," Bruce says, "You should get to wear a real collar. If that's okay?" 

"You didn't have to," Clint says, touching it, adjusting how it sits, "I don't want to put you out or anything."

"You aren't," Bruce tells him, and claims the privilege of stroking Clint's head, of watching his eyes blink, then flutter shut. "Don't worry about it." Then, on a whim, he leans forward and drops a kiss to the top of Clint's head.

He's not sure it's appropriate. Not sure what his role is supposed to be in this set-up, or what Clint's comfortable with, but it's a pretty innocent gesture. It hardly counts as taking advantage. Still. 

Clint makes a sound at it, and peers up and Bruce gives him another pat, a little rougher. Companionable instead of _dom_. "You're not a bother, Clint," he says.

\-----

They have the conversation in the kitchen, while the rest of the team is otherwise occupied. There's usually someone hanging around the common areas, looking for company or raiding other people's snacks, but today it's empty. Bruce puts on water and makes tea for himself and coffee for Clint, and they sit silently for a while before he says, "If there's anything you want to _not_ do, that SHIELD wants you to, I'm more than prepared to lie about it."

Clint relaxes, slouching in his familiar insolent way. Bruce notices that he's waited until then for the attitude to re-appear. 

"I won't hurt you, Clint," he says, and Clint snorts but his slouch gets a little bit more indifferent.

Bruce is already documenting his tells and the way he communicates a lot of things backwards.

\-----

Which is useful when Clint meets him in his living room, grinning and joking like he does when he and Tony are testing weapons in the off-lab blast range. 

"The living room, Bruce?" he asks, slipping out of his boots to stand barefoot on the warm hardwood, in t-shirt and battered jeans. He looks relaxed and confident, but he's almost mission-still. Not toying with his collar, or sliding his hands into pockets or making conversation. Clint, when _really_ at ease isn't this still, waiting patiently for a response or direction, hands loose at his sides.

"Yup," Bruce says, "Living room. And we'll _stay_ in the living room. Okay?"

Clint looks over the furniture, frowning, then back at Bruce. There's no question on his face. "It will be okay," Bruce tells him, and steps close to put a hand to Clint's face, "If you say stop, I'll stop. I promise."

Clint's cocky attitude falls away, and his head dips a little. Enough to press into Bruce's hand. He nods. "Okay."

"If you want to test it out this time, I won't mind," Bruce says, "If you want to test it a few times, even."

Clint nods into his hand again, his stillness shifting from self-assured indifference into something softer, no longer blocking Bruce out--or walling his apprehension in, maybe--but waiting for direction.

"Let me undress you?" Bruce asks, and Clint hesitates, then nods again. Glances up as Bruce's hand drops from his face to the hem of his shirt. This time there is a question in it, a quiet need. Bruce smiles. "Thank you, Clint," he says, and Clint shifts his weight a little. Like he might want to lean in, but is uncertain. 

"In a minute," Bruce tells him, gathering up the fabric of his shirt--worn thin, some metaphor about fishing flaking off it, a picture of a marlin faded into near invisibility--in both hands and tugs it carefully but efficiently over Clint's head, not fussing or teasing. Then he folds it into a sloppy square before laying it over the back of a chair. Giving himself tasks to give Clint time.

"Okay?" he asks, and Clint nods. His hands are by his sides again, fingers twitching a little. Bruce goes to stroke down Clint's arms, shushing, then settles his hands carefully on his waistband. Clint shivers. 

"Stop?" Bruce asks, and Clint hesitates, then shakes his head. "Talk, Clint. Was that a 'go on'? I don't want to misread."

"Go on," Clint says. His voice is rough, a little, and he follows it with a deep breath. To steady himself, maybe. Bruce slowly undoes the buttons of his jeans, giving Clint all the time he can to change his mind.

But there's only so long he can stretch undoing a fly, and by the time he's sliding the jeans down, off Clint's hips, Clint's still letting him.

"There," he says, when he has Clint down to nothing but his collar. Clint doesn't respond, stays quiet, his head down. He starts a little when Bruce tries walking around him, so he stops. "Don't want me behind you, Clint?"

A head-shake. Then, maybe remembering Bruce's previous direction, "No."

"Alright." Clint seems surprised that it's that easy, glancing up briefly to check Bruce's expression before dropping his head again. Bruce catches the flash of a smile as he does and carefully tips Clint's head to get a better look. 

"Hey," Clint says, with a grin. Relaxed now. Enough to have circled back to confidence. It's genuinely assured, without the aggresive edge Bruce is used to seeing. 

"You don't have to keep your eyes down," Bruce tells him, thumb under Clint's chin, "unless you want to." 

He doesn't mean to put Clint on the spot, but he looks a bit awkward after that, unsure again, like dropping his head is a natural thing for him--or maybe has been trained into him--but he's self-conscious about it, now that Bruce has made him aware of it.

"Come on," Bruce says, pretending not to notice, and leads Clint towards one of the chairs--Bruce may not have a lot of guests, but he does have a full living room set--and gets him on his knees before he balks.

"Shh. You're doing fine. I'm not going to make you do anything, Clint. Just this. And if it's okay with you, I'd like to touch you." He lays a hand carefully over the back of Clint's neck, just above the collar, and brushes his thumb gently over the fine hairs there. "Like this. Maybe," he moves to Clint's back, a firmer touch as he strokes from spine to shoulder, in circles, not bothering to avoid the still-tender scars marking Clint's back, "like this. That's all. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Clint says, in a whisper.

"Unless there's something else? Something you want?"

Clint shakes his head, dropping it again. His hands play a bit over his thighs, then there's brief touch at Bruce's ankle--an accident, probably. It's not really nervous, but more like Clint can't figure out what to do with his hands. "Behind your back," Bruce suggests, and Clint obeys. "Good." 

Clint's gaze flicks up, and Bruce repeats, "Good, Clint," just because Clint seems to like it. Seems to be reassured by approval. Bruce wouldn't have guessed that this was what was under Clint's sarcastic, confident exterior. This quiet, wary, but eager to please version of him. 

It's a crime that SHIELD's _forced_ him to take a dom. Bruce can't say that he's not warmed by Clint's submission, by Clint's choosing him, but the fact that he's _had_ to make the choice, under duress, under threat, tempers the feeling more than a little. 

Clint shouldn't be forced to show this side of himself, even to a man of his choice, if he didn't _want_ to. 

Clint makes a soft sound, a deep sigh that ends in his throat, and when Bruce pets him again--hand stroking the back of his neck, like before, not trying anything he hasn't run past Clint--he leans into it, his eyes soft when he looks up, waiting for instruction. Maybe for more praise. Bruce smiles.

He'd imagined Clint as a rough, back-talking sub, not one so easily led by a gentle hand.

\-----

He lets Clint float for a while, then, even though undressing was maybe the hardest thing he'd asked of Clint, Bruce tugs him up to lie down on the couch and covers him with a blanket. Sits with him.

Clint lets him rub his wrists as if he'd been bound, eyes following Bruce's movements as the watchfulness comes back. "You're okay," Bruce tells him, "You did well." Then he smiles, "You were very good."

He doesn't expect Clint to jerk his wrists away. To start shivering. 

"Clint?"

"Sorry. Sorry, doc."

It's not entirely confusing, even though nothing about this was particularly intense. Clint hadn't really wanted it, and maybe even gentle was too much, under those conditions. "Shh, Clint. Easy. Easy. You're done."

Clint shifts around a little, then says, "No. You were great, Bruce." It's not very convincing when Clint's curled up under the blanket, hands pulled close, but after a few minutes, he manages to relax and slides a hand back out from the blankets. Bruce cradles it a moment before massaging his wrist again and Clint hums, in approval if not quite in pleasure.

"It wasn't you," he says, after a bit, "Just. Being out of my head."

Oh. 

He's not Loki. He's not going to take advantage of Clint or force anything on him, or use what control he has against him. Clint shouldn't even be in the position where he has to worry about it, or be reminded. "We can not do it," Bruce offers, "And say we did," and Clint laughs, soft, and tugs his hand free of Bruce's grip again. This time to wrap his arm loosely around Bruce's middle in an awkwardly-angled hug. 

"No," Clint says, "It's okay." Then, "Did you mind?"

The idea of _minding_ having Clint obedient and naked at his feet makes Bruce snort. "No, Clint. I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all."

\-----

Clint doesn't seem any more sure than Bruce what the parameters of their set-up is supposed to be. Like he's afraid of taking up too much of Bruce's time, or of imposing on even more on Bruce's life.

They're sort of ridiculous. As seriously as Bruce takes the responsibility of what Clint's asked of him and whatever dark thoughts he has about SHIELD _making_ Clint do this, he can't help but be amused, a little, by their mutual hesitance. He can _see_ that Clint wants more, but won't ask, so Clint can probably see that he's more than willing to provide, but won't push.

What they end up with is Clint hanging around the lab a lot, quiet in a way he isn't when Tony's around, and offering his help-- _Should I move this? How long should this be on the burner? Bruce, is this meant to be smoking?_

It's a little bit like having a lab assistant, and sometimes Bruce wants to roll his eyes at it, but he has to admit that he's equally tentative, not wanting to ask anything of Clint that he's only willing to give because he wants to keep his place on the team.

Not wanting to ask more than he already has.

\-----

"You don't have to, you know," Clint says, indifferent to Steve's presence even though Bruce looks over quickly to see if he's listening. He isn't. Steve has his nose in a society magazine that he's picked up downstairs somewhere and is studying the pages with a baffled little frown on his face. Like he wants to voice judgements, but thinks it might backfire.

Clint looks over too, then back at Bruce and shrugs. Like he wouldn't care if Steve _was_ listening. "What are you talking about?" Bruce asks, even though he's got a fair idea. Clint huffs and tugs at his collar. 

" _Bruce_."

"I know I don't have to." That's not the problem. The problem is that _Clint_ has to. That and that the loss of control clearly isn't welcome. "I'm trying to be careful," Bruce admits. Clint snorts--a puff of derisive laughter.

"What? With _me_?" His grin is indulgent. Like he thinks Bruce is endearing as hell, but ridiculous.

Bruce says, "Sure. And with me." He's broken enough things that he never meant to. He's not about to be careless and destructive when he has the option not to be. "You're not the only one scared of things, Clint."

Clint makes a _pff_ sound. A clear, _who, me?_ and usually Bruce finds his bravado charming or at least amusing but sometimes, like now, it's also a little obnoxious. Talking to him when he's doing his Hawkeye thing is like trying to have a conversation through a brick wall. 

\-----

"Fine," Bruce says, eventually-- _finally_ \--"You want to make this difficult?" He means it as a joke, but Clint grins then stifles it. He _does_ , or at least he wants to make the challenge.

Bruce shakes his head, then hooks his fingers under the collar--his collar, he's starting to think of it as--and tugs and Clint comes easier than he'd expected, letting himself collapse onto Bruce almost heavily enough to send the breath out of him. 

"Funny," Bruce says, and pushes. Clint lets himself be tumbled off his lap and to the floor--or tumbles himself really, silly and not quite awkward even though he does almost bash an arm into the coffee table--then leans back on his arms, casual and smirking and this might be just a convenient arrangement, but Bruce feels a wash of fondness. 

Of--not ownership, but some kind of warm, proprietary feeling.

Even if Clint's not _really_ his.

Clint doesn't arrange himself into anything more formal than his current sprawl of limbs. Just tilts his head a little in a way that's probably supposed to be insubordinate but kind of reminds Bruce of a dog he'd sort-of kind-of adopted in India, for a while.

And yes. Clint has a point. He's been waiting for Clint to clarify the terms of their arrangement, but _he's_ supposed to be the dom here. It's just ... awkward to take the reins when he hasn't been at all sure that he's _supposed to_. All his relationships before this had just kind of evolved on their own, their roles clear long before any collaring took place.

"Alright," Bruce says, and smiles. Clint grins, any trace of his past uncertainly utterly gone, dissolved into this relaxed confidence. Bruce wonders, a little bit, if this is what a lion tamer might feel like, and props his elbows on his knees to lean towards Clint. _Over_ Clint. 

Clint smirks, like it's his victory--and maybe it is--then pushes himself upright and stretches to catch just the tip of one of Bruce's fingers between his lips, touching it with tongue and--lighter--with teeth. 

Bruce pulls back and flicks him in the nose and Clint jerks away, then sneezes twice.

"Geez, Bruce," he says, and sneezes again. "Damn it." 

"I know I don't _have_ to," Bruce says.

Clint scrubs at his face with the side of his hand, then makes an annoyed huffing sound like Bruce is testing his patience, but settles back. Leaning more towards Bruce now instead of away, but still without any trace of sub propriety. Bruce kind of likes it. Can think of a hundred doms it would drive nuts, up to and including Steve, maybe.

"Fine," Clint says, after a while, when Bruce doesn't go on, but his tone is a little different. There's less of the Hawkeye bullshit in it, for one. Less of the _hah, do your worst_ that he gives Steve in the training room. "I don't get what the problem here is," he says, and touches the collar with one hand for just a brief moment. 

Clint might think he's got a good front going, but Bruce knows that gesture. That reminder to himself that he's wearing someone's collar. It's a more uncomfortable gesture on Clint than on some others, but if he's uneasy it never makes it to his face. "Bruce," he says, like a prompt, and Bruce says, "I wish you would _talk_ to me, Clint. Because I'm not that sure that last time went very well."

Clint makes a dismissive noise, brushing off the concern, but his expression is questioning. Concerned for Bruce, maybe, more than humoring him. Like he's the one who needs caution and a careful hand, and Clint is bullet proof.

"You didn't like me behind you," Bruce reminds him, and Clint looks up and flashes him a grin, like it was nothing, but then he rearranges himself so he can lean his head against Bruce's knee. Bruce doesn't pat him.

"You didn't _get_ behind me," Clint points out and there's a note of fondness in his voice that makes Bruce give in and drop a hand to his hair, ruffling and flattening the short strands by turn. Rough then smooth against his palm. 

"What about--" Bruce starts, but Clint pats his thigh soothingly. 

"Don't worry, Doc," he says, "I've got you," and Bruce laughs softly. Barely louder than a breath. Clint smirks, still leaning his head sideways to rest on Bruce's knee. The contrast between his attitude and that gesture makes Bruce want to simultaneously pull him in line and spoil him rotten. 

The collar around Clint's neck is doing a number on _Bruce_. 

He moves his hand so he can rub small circles on Clint's temple, and Clint's eyes flick like he's trying to watch the movement, then close. "Last time went fine," he says, leaning a little more now, "You did fine, Bruce. It was--"

"You?" Bruce asks, with a snort, "It's not your job to make sure things work." 

Clint opens his eyes again. Says, "You know you're a weird dom, right?" but stays where he is, letting Bruce pet him. 

He's one to talk, Bruce thinks, when he's a sub who is also clearly a control freak, not giving up any information that Bruce could use to make sure he didn't do any harm. To make sure that this worked out alright, for both of them. 

\-----

The thing Bruce really dislikes about the arrangement--if he ignores the coercion factor--is the invasive paperwork. It reminds him that Clint wearing his collar isn't between the two of them. That there's a massive third party involvement, and that third party wants information that should be no one else's damn business. 

Hawkeye is an _exemplary_ sub, Bruce reports, because SHIELD might not think so, but that kind of thing is subjective. Were Steve in his place, he'd probably have a significantly different opinion. Tony, too, maybe.

He doesn't think either of them would get Clint into trouble, or want to risk losing him from the team, and while he can see why Clint might not want to put himself in Steve's hands, the thought of Clint and Tony together makes a bit more sense than his choosing Bruce. 

Bruce, who can't match his easy _whatever you want_ attitude. Who has, in the last few years, spent more time alone than with people, let alone _responsible_ for people.

Bruce, whose recent record with control hasn't been too good.

He gives Clint a positive score on _Trusts his dom_ , which is supposed to be synonymous with _obedient_ , but really isn't. Bruce is a scientist. He believes in technical accuracy. 

Clint might be recalcitrant and unforthcoming, but he does _trust_ Bruce. Maybe more than he deserves. 

Bruce doesn't add that last.

\-----

Bruce tries, "We're not doing anything you don't ask for, this time," but it backfires. 

Clint gives him a long look, shuttered and maybe faintly accusing, then gets up and jams his feet back into his shoes. Clatters out of Bruce's apartment without a word and somehow, even though he hadn't asked anything that was unreasonable, or even unusual, Bruce feels like he's betrayed Clint somehow.

Clint's full of strange landmines and it's worse, in a way, than the invulnerable Hawkeye act to see them go off. 

Even if their going off is relatively undramatic.

\-----

Clint watches him on the way back from the next mission, brief looks around the corners of the low conversation he's having with Natasha. Steve is busy arguing with Tony, whose impromptu, poorly communicated planning had again clashed with Steve's military discipline. The back and forth about _dangerous_ versus _worked, didn't it_ fills up the whole quinjet and leave no room for anyone else's discussion. He's not sure how Clint and Natasha manage, but then, they seem to conduct their communications largely by look and gesture. It makes Bruce wonder if Clint's glances mean he's being invited in, or just being talked about.

He's worn out, heavy with the usual post-Hulk fatigue. Wanting a long nap and dinner, but what he gets is Clint showing up a while later, changed into comfortable clothing and flushed from a too-hot shower, his hair still damp and smelling like soap and shampoo instead of smoke and--disturbingly--gasoline. 

"You don't have to do anything," is the first thing he says when Bruce lets him in, but he toes off his shoes and follows Bruce back to the kitchen where he takes over the cooking. _Is this supposed to be smoking_ , Bruce thinks, but Clint manages to not burn the kitchen down even if some of the potatoes are a bit crisp and some of the onions will need to be scraped from the pan after soaking. 

"This was supposed to be an apology," Clint says, frowning as he picks at the stuck onions with his fingers. He pops the sticky caramelized bits into his mouth, then makes a face as he gets a burnt piece. It's kind of disgusting, but endearing at the same time. 

Bruce takes the pan from him and sets it in the sink. Runs water into it to discourage Clint's scrap scrounging habits and pushes a fork into his hand instead. 

"You don't have to apologize," he says, and gets himself a glass of water before sitting back down at his kitchen table and pushing his plate over a bit, to share with Clint.

"Yeah, I do," Clint insists, stabbing a potato but not sitting. Then clarifies, "For acting like an asshole. After you lied to SHIELD for me and everything."

"I didn't lie," Bruce says, and Clint grins.

"Sitwell told me about your glowing reports," he says, and his grin goes crooked and genuinely amused. "He's proud of me for being a good boy. Apparently."

He _should_ be. Except, Bruce thinks, with a bit of immature jealousy, that Clint's not Sitwell's to be proud of. 

"I didn't lie," he says, again.

\-----

Bruce's faith and genuine good opinion doesn't exactly unlock a floodgate, and Clint doesn't start to answer Bruce's questions either, but he does start to ask some of his own. 

"We still staying in the living room?" he says, his shoes left by Bruce's door in a messy heap, leaning with his shoulder against the wall. There's nothing submissive about his pose except for the very slight dip of his head. The questioning way his hand plays at the hem of his shirt could go either way. Could be _may I?_ or _do you want me to?_ or could even be a reflection of Bruce's own _is this alright?_

"Yes," Bruce says, and Clint makes a face that could be disappointment or more Hawkeye bravado, but then he seems to stop and consider it. 

Says, "Okay," agreeably and with a shrug--as if Bruce was the one whose free will was being taken over--and somehow gestures Bruce over without really moving, then drops his head to his shoulder. Puffs laughter against Bruce's ear, his breath ticklish. "Whatever you want," Clint says, and Bruce brings a hand up to lay over the back of his neck, just above the collar. 

Says, "Clint."

"But just so you know; I'd be good," Clint promises, " _So_ good. You'd get to write Sitwell _stellar_ reports." 

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable writing reports about that," Bruce says, "to Sitwell or _anyone_."

\----

The problem with the reports, Bruce realizes--other than the obvious gross invasion of privacy--is that Bruce doesn't want to take care of Clint _for_ SHIELD. It's _his_ collar Clint is wearing, and his voice that Clint listens for when Bruce has him quiet and hazy-eyed and agreeable.

"You have a bad case of the possessives, doc," Tony tells him, when Bruce deletes another half-written report and hits the keys on his computer too hard as he does it. 

Tony's right, and it's probably dangerous because possessiveness is close to jealousy is close to anger, but it's not like he can refuse Clint now. 

Or like he'd want to.

"Bruce," Tony says, seriously, "Did you get too attached to a sub you were loaned?" and Bruce shoots him a look, because the last thing he needs is his life told back to him through the lens of Pepper's romance novels. 

"I can find you advice," Tony goes on, and Bruce just _bets_. 

"He's not a thing," Bruce says, "I know what happened was bad. I know why they want to make sure someone's got a firm hold on him, but he's not theirs to _loan_. This is just punishment."

"Clint doesn't think so," Tony says, and maybe Clint doesn't but Bruce can't imagine a dom being put on so short a leash, or having the control of their personal life taken over in the same way.

He's moved on from worrying about Clint's barely existent communication and back to worrying about the fact that the whole thing is a _requirement_.

Round and round in circles. 

\-----

"Give me your collar," Bruce says, meaning to be careful but probably flubbing it. He's been watching Clint watch a beaker, back to playing lab assistant the way he does when Bruce gets worried and distant. More patient with him than a sub should have to be, Bruce thinks. More patient than he would have thought Clint could manage, before.

Clint looks up, slowly. "It's starting to bubble," he says of the beaker, like he hadn't heard, but he bounces his foot a little and his face has no expression other than a small frown. 

"It's okay," Bruce says, and doesn't mean the experiment even though that's fine, too. "Come here." 

Clint does, still wary, and comes to stand in front of Bruce, stepping into the space between his knees. "I thought--" he starts, but doesn't finish. His head is down in that reflexive gesture of submission that means he doesn't have his walls up. 

Bruce took him by surprise, then, and did it clumsily. He feels lousy about it. 

"You wrote good reports," Clint says, and Bruce nods.

"I meant them, but. I don't want to write reports, Clint. I don't want this to be a _favor_." Or for Clint's submission to be something he gives because he thinks he owes it to SHIELD. Because he's being threatened. 

Clint starts to undo the collar, but Bruce catches his wrists and guides his hands away. Loosens it himself, careful and slow. 

"Usually," Clint says, "this isn't how de-collaring goes."

Bruce doesn't answer as he pulls the collar free and sets it on his desk, then puts his arms around Clint's waist to pull him closer.

"This is _definitely_ not how de-collaring goes," Clint says, and his hands drop--one to Bruce's shoulder and the other to his head to comb through his hair. "Bruce?"

"Cap will take care of things, Clint, if it's just to keep you on missions. He'll be careful." Clint's hand tightens in his hair, and Bruce pats him gently, one hand in the small of Clint's back.

"I don't like people behind me," Clint says, still carefully playing his fingers through Bruce's hair, "where I can't see. I like that you tell me what you're doing. I like that you ask."

"Clint--"

"I don't like to ask for--Giving doms targets is too---"

"You don't have to tell me anything, Clint," Bruce says, and Clint's hand catches in his hair and he's quiet while he takes a second to comb through the tangle without pulling. Then his breath leaves him in a huff. 

"Fine. Shuffle me off to Cap," he says, in his _bulletproof, don't give a shit_ voice. 

Bruce smiles and picks the collar back up. "If you want it, this is yours, Clint. Not for SHIELD, but for real."

"You didn't think this was real?"

"I think I was writing reports to Sitwell about whether or not you were behaving yourself."

Clint doesn't answer, so Bruce goes on.

"I don't even know if you _want_ a collar, Clint," he says, and Clint makes an irritated noise. A puff of breath like the kind that comes over the comms, sometimes, when his targets are taking their time to appear.

Then Clint steps away, just enough to make a little distance, and gives Bruce a long, careful look before he goes to his knees. Says, "Let me wear your collar, Bruce."

"That's not how--"

"You can't be weird _and_ a stickler for tradition," Clint says, and he's probably right, but Bruce just wants something _right_. To _do_ something right, after years of just trying to grab what he could, or scrap it together while on the run. 

Clint glances up and licks his lip in a nervous, impatient gesture. Then says, "Bruce? I think something's burning."

\-----

"Back-talking, insubordinate," Tony says, typing away. Clint tips his chair onto it's two back legs and flips him off. Tony adds, "Ill mannered."

"Exemplary," Bruce says, from across the room, even though Tony's probably ignoring his report dictation. Tony snorts. 

"Guess it depends what he's an example of," he says, and looks at Clint consideringly.

"Also, if Sitwell wants to peer into my bedroom he'd better buy me dinner first," Bruce says, and the keyboard clicking pauses long enough for Tony to give him a thumbs-up to indicate he'd heard. 

"Into my bedroom," he repeats, typing, "This is the best made-up report ever." Then he looks at Clint again and says, "Bedroom, eh?" and hits another key. 

"Sent."

"I hope that's not how that report actually read," Steve says, stern but too late. Tony gives him an enigmatic smirky look, then uses his foot to tip Clint's chair back onto all four feet and reaches to pat him. 

"Of course not. It said, Clint Barton is a very good boy," he recites, ruffling Clint's hair, "and in control of his own mind. Mostly." Clint makes an annoyed sound but doesn't duck away. He's not wearing a collar, except on missions, but Bruce is getting around to fixing that. 

Scrapped together might not be all bad--his team is an example of that. Shining proof, even--but some things he's going to _be_ a stickler about. Just because when he'd imagined collaring someone, while he was on the run, he hadn't pictured doing it in a lab filled with the stink of scorched chemicals. 

\-----

"Bedroom?" Clint asks later, kicking off his shoes in his usual sloppy way, leaving them in Bruce's hallway. "Or was that just to bug Stark?"

"Shh," Bruce says, and Clint grins and stops talking. Gives him a questioning look. "Clothes," Bruce tells him, and Clint jams his hands into his pockets and tilts his head, a token of insubordination before he wanders over and puts his head on Bruce's shoulder--a gesture that's familiar now--and pulls Bruce's hands onto him, settling them onto his hips.

"You can talk, Clint," Bruce says, slipping his hands under Clint's shirt to find skin, "if you want something."

Clint hesitates, then says, "You do it," quietly and without looking up. It's taking a risk, for Clint, and Bruce slides a hand up his back soothingly, his fingers playing over the knobs of his spine.

"Okay," he says, and when he strokes up Clint's sides again, he brings the shirt up with it, then tugs it over Clint's head and tosses it aside, less careful than that first time, then reaches for the button of Clint's jeans. Says, "I'm going to kiss you, Clint," but Clint beats him to it, eager and a little clumsy with it, his hands on either side of Bruce's face. Bruce kisses back, sliding Clint's jeans down as he does it. He lets them drop and Clint's kissing falters a bit as he stumbles free of them and kicks them away. 

Bruce pulls away. Says, "Alright?" and pulls Clint's hands off him, to push them down till they're at his sides and hold them there. Clint tugs a few times, then stills. Leaves them there when Bruce lets him go, but makes a soft sound when he steps back, leaving Clint standing the to look him over.

"What about my collar?" Clint asks, not in his usual challenging tone, but a genuine question. His eyes slide down, then flick back up, like he's fighting his lowered gaze reflex. 

" _My_ collar," Bruce corrects, and smiles when Clint says, "Yeah." 

Bruce pulls it out of his pocket--he's been planning on this. On collaring Clint on his own terms--and says, "All you have to say is 'stop', Clint," because Clint's gaze is flickering over him, taking in that Bruce is still dressed and maybe starting to process that _he_ isn't. Then he settles on the collar and there's a brief second where he gets a Tony-like smirky look, before he goes quiet again.

"I know."

"And you can have the collar anyway," Bruce says, "It's not a test."

"I know," Clint says again, his voice gone quiet, and Bruce catches him by the upper arm, then strokes down past Clint's elbow to grip just above his wrist. Clint's warm. Warm enough that he should maybe be shivering a little, in the cool of Bruce's room, but he isn't. He leans in and stretches to lay kisses along Bruce's jaw, and Bruce moves his hand to wrap it around Clint's neck, thumb over his throat. 

"Bruce?" Clint asks, in a low whisper, and Bruce uses his grip to push him back. 

"You're doing fine," he says, and then tells Clint, "Knees."

Clint goes, sliding out of his grip, still more or less in Bruce's entryway, only feet from where Bruce had stripped him down the first time, and brings his wrists behind him, giving Bruce a quick look as he does. "That's good," Bruce says, and touches his face, tipping his head back, making Clint look up. 

"I'm going to be behind you, Clint. Just for a second." 

Clint blinks and drops his head, tugging free of Bruce to do it. 

"You can say no," Bruce says, but Clint shakes his head. "Is that a 'stop' or a 'go on'?"

"Go on," Clint says. Then, when Bruce moves to, when he starts to move out of Clint's peripheral vision, jerks his head back up, "Stop."

Bruce stops, and steps back, hand going to card through Clint's hair. "Alright," he says, "Not that, then," he says, and when he starts to move away, Clint ducks to fit his head back against Bruce's hand. 

Says, "Sorry."

"No," Bruce says, "You're doing good. Is it still alright if I put the collar on you?"

Clint nods against his hand. Agreeable and calm and Bruce has the lion tamer feeling again, having Clint fold so easy to his hand. Having Clint tilt his head to look up at him, like he doesn't want to dislodge Bruce's hand and lose his touch. "Yeah," he says, and tracks Bruce when he has to take his hand away to open the collar. 

"Will you wear my collar, Clint?" he asks, and this time he can say _my_ without hesitating. This time there's no SHIELD manipulation behind it, or if there is, at least he knows Clint would make this choice anyway. Would choose _Bruce_ anyway. 

Clint nods, and Bruce doesn't make him say it. Just slides the collar around Clint's neck and works the buckle--the angle is a bit awkward with Clint down on his knees, until he tilts his head away to give Bruce room--slipping the end through it and fitting the collar snug but not tight against Clint's throat.

"Thank you, Clint," Bruce gets to say, and this time it's real and not just smoothing a situation over.

Clint says, "Shirt, Bruce. Come _on_ ," and pops half of Bruce's buttons forcing the issue, then turns everything around again by using his grip on the fabric to pull Bruce down with him. 

Bruce catches him by the collar and twists, just a little, and Clint's hands fall away. 

"Be good," Bruce says, with two fingers still caught in the collar, and Clint nods. His hands are still, palms against the floor by his sides. Like his head dipping habit, it's a sign that somewhere along the way someone's taught Clint pretty manners, even if for the most part Clint doesn't use them. Bruce unsnags his fingers from the collar to touch them against Clint's face, careful.

"If I tell you to ask for something, are you going to storm out of here again?" Bruce asks, not quite teasing, and Clint twitches, then reaches one hand to slip Bruce's shirt off his shoulders. Smiles when Bruce lets it slip to the floor. 

"No," he says, and ducks his head as he lets his hand drop back to his side. The collar shifts a little against his neck, the weight of the buckle making it slide a little when Clint moves. Bruce adjusts it back, and gets back to his feet. Gives a tug to bring Clint up with him. 

"Well?" he asks. 

Clint gives him that funny head tilt, looking Bruce up and down. A dom-like measuring look that Bruce has used himself, and even used on Clint. "It's alright, Clint," Bruce says, and Clint's gaze darts to the doorway to Bruce's bedroom then back to his face, questioning.

Bruce could say _words_ , but there's no mistaking Clint, really, so making him actually _ask_ would be just for it's own sake. Just to push, and that's not what Bruce wants. Doesn't think it's what Clint wants either, just yet, so instead he says, "Okay. Go."

Clint hesitates, maybe waiting for more specific instruction. "Lie down and wait for me," Bruce tells him, and for a second Clint looks like he's going to say something, but then he touches the collar and doesn't. Bruce has missed seeing it on him. "Go, Clint," he says, a little firmer, and when Clint's gone takes some time to pick up his shirt and Clint's clothing. 

Letting Clint stew, just for a bit.

\-----

He's done what Bruce asked, sort of. Sprawled across Bruce's bed on his stomach, feet towards the headboard so he can keep his eyes on the door, where Bruce leans just looking at him. Clint looks easy and casual, arms folded with his head resting on them. There's a spark of mischief in his eyes that means he knows he's not _really_ being obedient, and Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. Waits for him to correct himself, but Clint doesn't.

Communicating things backwards, Bruce thinks, Clint's small insurrections a sign that he's comfortable and knows he's safe. 

Bruce is fairly certain it's not a test anymore.

"Around," he says, gesturing, and Clint sits up to flop the other way, on his back. He can't see Bruce so easily now, so Bruce walks over, remembering Clint's uneasiness about having doms out of his sight. He's not sure this is as bad as being at Clint's back, or if Clint even thinks it's similar, but better to play it safe. 

Clint blinks up at him as he steps closer, and starts to reach for him then stops and doesn't. "Good," Bruce says, when he relaxes, and nods at the space above Clint's head, "Arms up."

There's a soft sound of protest at that, but Clint does it, not crossing his wrists, but placed close enough together that Bruce could pin them one-handed if he wanted. 

"Still okay?" he asks, and sits, tipping Clint's face towards him. Clint has that soft blinky look that makes Bruce feel warm and calm and, in a way, terrified. He strokes a hand over Clint's head, up his arms and back down, over his ribs, then leans to kiss him. Stops short to say, "Answer, Clint."

Clint shifts impatiently, "Still okay," he says, tipping his head, lips parting. "Come _on_ , Bruce." 

There's none of the stillness from earlier. Or at least, the soft pliability has turned into pushiness. Bruce says, "Behave," but closes the distance before Clint can withdraw or complain, kissing roughly and hooking his fingers back under Clint's collar, holding him down when Clint's head and shoulders come off the bed until he gives up and falls back with a frustrated sound. Not quite a growl. 

" _Bruce_."

"Quiet," Bruce says, and Clint squirms in impatient annoyance, but his arms stay where they are. "You're so good," Bruce tells him, amused by the way Clint has to at least pretend to buck. He lets go of the collar, giving a last warning pull as he does, but Clint ignores it. Or at least, he turns his head as Bruce's fingers trail over his cheek and catches for them with lips and tongue until Bruce lets him, mostly because Clint's also using teeth, and there's the slightest hint of threat to it. Like he might actually bite if Bruce tries to pull away. 

Clint makes a pleased noise as he sucks two of Bruce's fingers into his mouth and wraps his tongue around them, his eyes on Bruce as he does, relaxed and utterly still now. Like sucking Bruce's fingers is taking up all of his concentration.

He's beautiful and Bruce finally, finally, doesn't feel like he's stealing this or unfairly making himself the focus of Clint's drive to please. He twists his hand, forcing Clint's mouth open far enough that he can pull his fingers free then trails them down Clint's body in brief touches--damp, short strokes at Clint's jaw, throat, collarbone. Over his nipple, which brings Clint's back off the bed with a hiss. 

Bruce stops teasing. Strokes his hand over Clint's belly and wraps his hand around Clint's cock, just briefly and Clint hisses again, and says, "Bruce," and this time its a plea, his breath harsh. Bruce taps his thigh and Clint spreads further, making space, lifting his hips when Bruce brushes over his length again.

When he whines, Bruce stops and lays his hand against the inside of Clint's thigh, just his thumb stroking until Clint twists towards him, as if he was tied, as if his arms were secured by more than Bruce's say-so, trying to get him to touch again, or maybe just trying to rut against him. 

Bruce stops him with a hand on his hip, then rolls him the other way, onto his side and facing away, and half expects Clint to balk, but he doesn't except to make a soft noise that could be disappointment or could be distress. "Okay?" Bruce asks, and Clint nods.

"Yeah. It--I can tell where you are." It's a lot of information for Clint to give up unprompted, even if Bruce had figured most of the pattern out on his own.

"I'm right here," Bruce tells him, and lies down at Clint's back, kissing the back of his neck to give Clint more locational clues. To make up for being in Clint's blindspot. Clint makes a soft noise--impatience and amusement--as Bruce reaches between them to undo his pants, pushing them open and freeing himself with a groan. 

Clint twists against him. "I haven't--"

"Shh," Bruce says, "You don't have to do anything," and guides his arms back down, then wraps Clint's fingers around his own cock, covering it with his own, guiding Clint's hand into a slow stroke. Keeping the pace even as Clint reaches his free hand back to grab Bruce's hip, as if to steady himself. Maybe to steady Bruce, or encourage him.

The collar scrapes against Bruce's chin when he kisses the back of Clint's neck again, and when he licks, Clint's breath catches and he tries to move his hand faster. Bruce doesn't let him.

"I've got you," he says, and Clint makes a complaining noise, but stops struggling. Probably interpreting it in a different way than Bruce meant for him to. His breath is harsh, a weird combination of slow and gasping, like needs to pant and quite remember how. 

"Come here," Bruce says, and pulls him back and close to he can slide between Clint's thighs, keeping to the same slow pace that he's forcing Clint to keep, slicking his way with pre-come, even if it's not really enough. If Bruce had foresight, he'd have had lube ready. If he'd known Clint was going to latch onto that _bedroom_ comment and actually _ask_ for something. 

Slow and careful would have to do it, this time.

Clint moves his free hand from Bruce's hip to grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand away or maybe just speed him up, a sound coming out of him that's almost a sob, and when Bruce stops instead, makes a choking, moaning sound like he's being murdered. Bruce breathes, "It's okay, it's okay," into Clint's shoulder, "I have to go slow."

It doesn't really explain why _Clint_ has to, too, and maybe Clint thinks the same thing, because the next sound he makes is a protest. "Shh, shh," Bruce says, and moves Clint's hand again, even slower. A long stroke up and back down until Clint is panting and grinding back against him, as if Bruce sliding against his skin is enough to make up for the torturously slow pace.

Then, with his own breath of murmured nonsense, releases Clint's hand so he can wrap both arms around him, pulling him close to grind against him, sliding against Clint's ass and thighs. Clint takes the opportunity to set his own pace, and Bruce says, "Clint," in as close to a warning tone as he can manage, and feels Clint laugh, low, panting around it. 

And then he shudders and bucks against Bruce, nearly knocking him in the nose when he throws his head back, choking his cry off like he's afraid of being overheard. The strangled whine it turns into trails off into a sigh, and then into soft, garbled words.

Bruce catches Clint's wrist before he can wipe it on the blankets or sheet, his own soothing muffled and unintelligible against Clint's back and shoulder, and Clint lets him pin it. His other hand slides low on Clint's belly to keep him pressed close, his breath still coming unsteadily as Bruce concentrates on keeping his own within safe parameters of even until he finishes with a groan between Clint's thighs, against his ass.

He holds on, panting himself and listening to his heart, wondering if it's pounding too hard until it starts to slow and the blood stops rushing in his ears.

Then Clint shifts and somehow Bruce recognizes that his stillness has changed and rolls back enough to make space. Clint whines, and Bruce says, "I'm here. Turn over, Clint." 

Clint does, not even making a face at the slippery mess Bruce has left on him, his eyes soft and half shuttered before he drops his head against Bruce's shoulder, his clean hand playing over Bruce's ribs, following the pattern of hair around his nipple, the other still held in Bruce's grip.

"Are you okay?" Bruce asks, and lets him go so he can bring his own fingers to the back of Clint's head, stroking as he waits for the shivers to kick in. For the moment where coming back up reminds Clint of having his will stolen. 

Bruce says, "Here," and guides Clint to wipe his hand off on Bruce's pants. He's going to kick them off as soon as Clint's really back anyway. As soon as Clint's alright with a brief loss of contact. He can cope with the mess for a few minutes.

Clint hums agreeably and Bruce strokes over his back, tracing scars and rubbing gentle circles by turn until Clint twitches in his grip and the shakes start up, milder this time than before. "I've got you," Bruce says, "You're fine. You were good, Clint," and holds him until he stops shivering. 

It doesn't last very long, and the next time Bruce offers praise, Clint sighs, this time in pleasure, and lets Bruce tips his head back so he can search his face to make sure he hasn't hurt anything by accident. Clint smiles a little dopily at him. Says, "Thanks for the collar, Doc." 

Bruce keeps his hand moving over Clint's back and side until he's sure he's really steady again, then says, "Let me clean us up, okay?"

"Mm," Clint says, but snags Bruce when he starts to get up. Bruce smiles.

He has his pants halfway down his thighs, so coming back has to wait until he's kicked them the rest of the way off, but then he turns back to lean over Clint and pretends to check his collar--as cover for playing with it. For gloating over it, a little bit, maybe--and to tilt Clint's head back again. far enough this time that he can kiss his throat and the underside of his chin. "Thank you, Clint."

"For what?" Clint grins, sliding his hands back into his hair, as Bruce sucks bruises into his skin, "It's _my_ favor."

Bruce lets Clint pull him into another kiss, even though they're both cooling into disgusting stickiness, and says into it, again, "Thank you, Clint."


End file.
